


Deleted Scenes

by breccia



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: F/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-13
Updated: 2013-05-27
Packaged: 2017-12-11 18:36:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/801877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breccia/pseuds/breccia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I really enjoy fleshing out scenes that we don’t have access to, particularly in ME3. Sort of like if you applied the humor and character insight of the Citadel DLC to the entire game. CONSIDER IT SALVE. Medi-gel for your feelings.</p>
<p>This is a collection of such scenes, set to a female Shepard romancing Kaidan. </p>
<p>Part I: Garrus Vakarian, Love Doctor. In which Garrus decides Shepard might need a helping hand (talon?) after visiting Kaidan in the hospital.<br/>Part II: Has anyone ever looked into why the Citadel elevators are so slow? I mean, not that Shepard minds in this particular instance, of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Garrus Vakarian: Love Doctor I

Garrus had a moment of intuition when Shepard returned to the ship. He only caught a glimpse of her in the corridors on her way to her next task, the same determined energy in her step as always, but he knew something had happened. Nothing about her demeanor, from such a distance at least, seemed any different, but he had stopped at the hospital, too. He saw the bruises and the machines, the ones that just a few hours before had been breathing and pumping blood, desperately trying to mimic life.

“The view’s nice,” was the only thing he could think to say at the time, looking out over the Citadel, anywhere other than the hospital bed.

Garrus was one of the few who had been with Shepard since the start. He would never question her commitment, her ability to press on, or her knack for surviving the worst odds; he knew her better than that. But that familiarity came at a price. Now he was committed. Now he was _involved._

Now as he watched her disappear into the elevator, never speaking a word, he felt a pang in his chest. He wanted to ignore it. She was strong and capable. She certainly didn’t need some Turian asking if she was “ _all right_.”

He supported her in other ways, after all. Physical ways. _Saving-her-ass_ ways. _Shooting-the-last reaper-spawn-that-she-didn’t-see-coming-up-behind-her_ ways. Those were important ways, he was sure of it.

Liara didn't want to divulge any secrets she may have acquired. Instead she gave him a sad smile and told him how nice it was that he was concerned. She even suggested that _he_ talk to Shepard. Garrus quickly left her quarters, a bit more flustered than when he arrived.

He retreated back to the solitude of the battery and began typing furiously on his console. Work would help, he thought. A distraction. There was always something to do: troops to organize, guns to fix, Turian refugees to assist, news to read. It was working well, until EDI decided to offer her assessment of the situation. Well, perhaps it was more that she _imposed_ her assessment upon Garrus.

Her voice, omnipresent and beaming down from on high, startled him from his meditation. EDI disguised her personal stake in the matter. "It is important to monitor the crew's mental and emotional states to make sure they are fit for battle; though I must admit I do not fully understand what my sensors currently indicate."

He knew that Shepard had been helping EDI (though perhaps counseling was a better term,) through her transition into a fully self-aware AI: giving her tips on her blossoming "humanity," holding her hand through the emotions she now had access to, explaining the complexities of life in careful ways such as to avoid EDI going rogue and destroying existence as it was currently known, but he had never been good with that sort of thing. He even tried telling her so.

EDI paused at the remark for the briefest of moments, doubtlessly calculating untold numbers of potential follow-up responses. She thanked Garrus for his time. He thought he had made it through unscathed as the battery fell silent. He sighed and quietly thanked the spirits. Then EDI's voice rang through the room.

"Perhaps _you_ should go and talk to her."

He didn't respond. It twisted something up inside, the same feeling that always washed over him when faced with a situation that couldn't be solved with guns or by letting a soft-hearted colleague take over. Where _had_ all the soft-hearted colleagues gotten to, anyway? Chambers had been so utterly useless before (and frankly a little bit too forward for his tastes,) but he would have killed to have her back on board to sort out this mess.

Garrus tried to return his attention to the screens before him. Numbers and characters swam by in a blurry haze. He rubbed his scar and wondered if EDI was waiting to see if he'd leave the room.

As if on command, her voice permeated the room once more. "She is currently in the port side lounge."

"Thank you, EDI," he said sarcastically.

He tried to focus on his task again, but he knew it was folly. He _was_ concerned; he knew the history, he knew that Shepard was grappling with things three years in the making. He had long since accepted that Shepard was his friend, not just a comrade or a soldier-in-arms, but what could he possibly do? The last time he tried to give romantic advice, when he was ambushed by a fellow soldier on Menae with a question about his fiancé back home, Garrus started talking such nonsense that he pretended to see a husk coming for them and took off in a bolt.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to help; it was that he saw himself tumbling through the conversation, literally and figuratively: inadvertently making innuendos, offending her with a poor translation, _actually tripping over his feet and crashing to the ground_ , maybe even pulling some furniture over as he fell, breaking lamps and glasses and limbs, lying in a pile of debris, looking up at Shepard, “Oh, hey, Shepard. Do you want to talk about your feelings?”

For someone so collected in battle, he knew only too well how often he stuck his foot in his mouth. _That was a great phrase._ He really enjoyed it, despite having learned it only after Vega witnessed an embarrassing moment between him and a female Turian on the Citadel. Of course Vega had expanded upon it, questioning if he even called it a "mouth" or a "foot." The female was already scurrying away as Vega pondered. "Claw in your ... beak?" It was all Garrus could do not to strangle him.

Still, the notion pulled at him. He wanted to do something. He wondered if Shepard would appreciate it if he _did_ topple down. At least it might make her laugh.

He considered what he would appreciate in a moment such as this. Certainly not petty platitudes. Certainly not the soothing “there theres” that someone such as Chambers might have plied her with. Shepard was cut from the same cloth he was, at least in as much as two completely different species that can’t even consume the same foods without dying could be.

Garrus sighed and pushed himself off the console. If he was in Shepard’s place, even if Shepard stumbled through a conversation, making it painfully clear that she hadn’t the slightest clue what cultural norms existed in Turian society, he would appreciate the thought. That idea that she might blindly force her way through a conversation (much like she forced her way through everything else in life,) gave him an odd sense of comfort. They were both soldiers, and they soldiered through life, difficult conversations included.

So he took a deep breath to aid his composure and made his way out of the battery. EDI was thankfully silent on his decision.

Most of the ship was asleep, save for the skeleton crew that operated while the others rested. Two engineers passing through on their way to their next task were the only signs of life he encountered, and they showed no signs of recognizing his apprehension. The lounge was close enough that he hadn’t the time to talk himself out of it, and yet his body paused and his feet planted firmly in the ground just before the door.

He stared at it for a moment, wondering how exactly he might broach the topic. Suddenly he was hit with a blinding flash of inspiration. He remembered the time on Feros, so long ago, when Shepard had been in a particular mood. She was growling orders and as she moved forward, her eyes on a distant point, her body stumbled forward, arms askew, waving comically as she tried to catch her balance before hitting the ground. She caught herself in time and used her momentum to swoop around, teeth bared, ready to let loose on whoever had tripped her. Garrus and Liara, out with her for the mission, were several feet away, and watched her in silence. She glared at them, her eyes flashing with anger, and her gaze slowly fell to the ground and to the rock that had unwittingly sent her toppling forward. The anger fell from her face at once. She gave them a quick glance, not an apologetic look, but perhaps the closest expression she could get to embarrassment, and turned back around and silently began her march again.

Garrus opened the door, amused at the memory. The soft hum of the engines was all that could be heard in the lounge. Shepard was sitting on the arm of a sofa, staring out into space.

"Garrus," she greeted, glancing over her shoulder.

"Rough night?" he asked as he approached her side.

Her expression was neutral. "About the same as any other."

There was an empty glass in her hand. "You sure about that?"

She gave him a microscopic smile. He may have been all thumbs when it came to these kinds of interactions (he discovered that human idiom on his own, much to Vega’s surprise,) particularly with other species, but he could read everything in that tiny expression. A single muscle in her face had responded to his question, not out of amusement but out of decades of social training. "This is how you respond to humor," it said. "This is a societal norm and it is expected; it doesn't matter how you actually feel."

He plucked the glass from her hand and turned toward the bar. "Right, of course you're okay. It's completely normal to find your commanding officer drinking alone and staring out into the dark abyss of space in the middle of the night. It's great for morale, too."

She let out a short exhale of a laugh, a half-hearted expression. Garrus poured what was left in Shepard's bottle, golden amber and smelling of wood, and matched it with a glass from one of the few dextro-based liquors in the cabinet.

"If there's one thing I'm good at," he said as he approached her, "it's helping people not drink alone."

Shepard's smile was a bit more honest as she took the glass. "Thanks."

Garrus took a seat off to her side and followed her gaze out the window. For a few moments they looked out onto the stars together in silence.

"You know,” Garrus began casually, “I can't wait for this meeting you’ve got planned. Krogan, Turian, and Salarian ambassadors, all working together for a common goal. Are you sure I can't sell tickets?"

Shepard responded with another empty smile. He couldn’t help but again wonder what Chambers would have done in his position. Or Liara. He shook his head clear of the thoughts. Chambers was Chambers. Liara was Liara. He steeled his resolve.

"Tell me what happened with Kaidan."

Shepard absorbed the blunt request's shockwave as best she could. Someone who didn't know her might not have seen it strike at all, but he did. He could also see the calculations begin in her head, the cogs slowly turning faster, as she tried to search for the best response. The drink in her hand was visibly slowing her down. He smiled as he realized he had the upper hand: sobriety.

"Look," he went on, before she could respond, "you might as well tell me. I keep hearing these rumors that friends are supposed to help each other out. And I don't just mean by saving their hide in battle all the time."

The cogs were doubtlessly spinning faster, now. "Saving their--"

"Please, Shepard," he said, holding up a hand, "you don't have to apologize; I'm more than happy to cover your ass."

Her smile was genuine now, though she was shaking her head and trying to force the expression away. "You're a real piece of work, Garrus," she said, taking a sip of her drink.

He held his glass toward her in a toast and drank.

"But seriously, how did it go?"

"It went fine," she said.

"And you're here gazing into the inky black void of space because ... it went fine?"

She shrugged the question off. "He's doing better; he should be fully healed soon. Udina wants to make him a Spectre."

Garrus sat back in his seat. "You know I'm not asking how _he's_ doing. You think I didn't pay him a visit, too?"

She glanced at him. “I didn’t think you ever left the battery.”

“Very funny. But seriously, Shepard.”

She turned slightly from the window toward him. The shadows cast down on her face and hollowed her eyes. She looked tired.

"It’s fine, Garrus,” she said flatly.

"I don’t think it is. I'm worried."

"Worried? He’s doing better."

"Yes, I know. I'm worried _because_ he's doing better. I'm worried because despite that you're still here, right now, drink in hand."

She glanced down at the glass. " _You_ put this drink in my hand."

"You're quite evasive tonight."

She was watching him carefully. It seemed an all-together new expression, and he struggled to decipher it. "You're serious about this, aren't you?" she asked.

"There's a lot going on right now, if you haven’t noticed. I don't think it's unreasonable to want a friend to be all right."

He wondered how odd it must be to be human, to have your face give away all your emotions. Turians were so reserved that way, but the fleshy faces of humans stretched and curved and moved at the slightest provocation. Her expression was softer now, and his confidence rose.

"I know how you were after we took down Sovereign,” he went on. “I don't think all that happiness can be attributed to winning a battle."

It wasn't very often that Shepard appeared surprised. "Garrus?"

"What, just because we’ve never talked about it before doesn’t mean we can’t now. Wait, was it supposed to be a secret?" he teased.

"Apart from all the rules on fraternization?"

“I’ve never known a rule to apply to Commander Shepard before,” he said. “This is news to me.”

She flashed another half-hearted smile down at her drink. Garrus set his glass down and sat forward in his seat. 

“Don’t be coy, Shepard. I know what happened on Horizon. _I was there_. ”

"Yeah. Horizon wasn't ... the best."

"So he gets injured, you're upset. He gets better, you're still upset. What happened?"

The amusement was gone from her face. She stared deeply into her glass.

"He wants to move past it. Past Horizon," she said. "He even said that he still ..."

As she drifted off, Garrus reflected on how odd it was that they had never talked like this before. He had always been a bit intimidated by the species gap, but perhaps some things were the same for everyone.

"What? Still _loves_ you? Is that what you’re having trouble saying? How is it that _I'm_ doing better with this conversation topic than you?"

She let out a soft laugh. "I don't know."

“Do you even know what happened to my last relationship?”

She glanced up at him. “No. What?”

“Oh, like I’m going to tell you before we finish this conversation.”

She took another sip, hiding amusement behind the glass.

"So, what then? Are you upset because you're trying to think of a way to let him down easy? Do you have your eye on someone else, now? Maybe some bad-ass vigilante, some sharpshooting, exotic alien-type, who's always saving you from certain violent death on every backwater planet in the galaxy?"

"I'm going to pretend you didn't just say any of that."

"To wise decisions," he said, toasting her again.

Her smile slowly faded. "He almost died, Garrus."

"It's war, Shepard,” He said, mimicking her pattern. “We _all_ might die at any moment. I think that’s reason enough to want to live life to its fullest, to not be mired in regret, to enjoy every chance we get. Why would we even bother to fight if we can’t do that? Why would—" the words caught in his throat as realization struck. “Damn. I sound like you."

She laughed in earnest. “I’ve been told I rub off on people.”

“Next thing you know I’ll be giving off-the-cuff speeches, inspiring the galaxy with my earnest idealism.”

“Last time I checked you were already the Turian army’s poster boy.”

“Yeah it’s … a little odd.”

She chuckled. “Someone made a VI of me, if you want to talk about odd.”

“Yeah, no. I’m busy talking about why you’re upset over something any normal person would be pleased with.”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. People around me have a tendency to get hurt.”

“ _I’m_ a person around you. Where’s the sad stare out into the stars for my well-being? Or are you saying I can handle myself better than Major Alenko? Because, you know, I’ve been thinking, if we were in a fight, I could probably take him.”

“Don’t twist my words, Vakarian.”

He was on a roll. “Here’s the thing. It’s pretty much the end of days. I’m not saying you should give up the fight and run off together, I’m saying you should make yourself happy, so you can take up the fight even stronger.”

“It’s not that simple, I’m—“

“End of days.”

“Garrus, it’s –“

“ _End of days_.”

He couldn’t tell if she was amused or annoyed. His strategy was working.

“I can’t believe you’re even debating this,” he went on. “Do you know how silly it sounds, that you’re feeling bad because someone you care about still cares about you? That you have a viable chance to be happy?”

“I’m trying to save the galaxy from extinction. I just don’t see how I could possibly … ”

She cast a glance his way as she trailed off, perhaps considering for the first time that she was about to expose a part of her she hadn’t before. Garrus sat patiently. He was primed and ready for her breakthrough. Shepard looked back to her drink.

“It just isn’t fair to him. There’s the Alliance brass, the war, the … the reapers themselves. I can’t be selfish like that. He should be off living his life, living it up with what time we all have left. I can’t let him think that … this can have a happy ending.”

"Listen. Imagine I came to you with this problem. This, 'problem,' so to speak," he loved the finger quotes that humans had injected into galactic society; he took every chance to use them. "Suppose I was faced with the opportunity to be happy with someone, but I was worried because the war might take away everything tomorrow, that our time together might be short. What would you tell me?"

She took a deep breath. "I'd ..."

Garrus sat straighter in his seat, narrowed his eyes, and brought one clenched fist to his chest. "'Don't let this war take away your life. If we give up on ourselves, on each other, then haven't the Reapers already won?'"

Shepard stared at him. "Was that an impression of me?"

"It was pretty good, right?"

She was visibly trying to fight a smile. "All right, all right."

"Wait wait, I thought of another one," he inched forward on the seat, hands motioning with his words. "This ridiculous Alliance fraternization thing. Are you really going to tell me you wouldn't be happy just to _have_ to face punishment? Think about it. They're not going to do anything until this war is over. If you end up standing in front of some tribunal, explaining your relationship, _on Earth_ , in front of _fellow survivors_ , both of you _alive_ , are you really going to be that upset?"

"I get it, Garrus, really. You've made your point."

"And let's not forget how stressed out you are."

"Garrus--"

"I'm not going to get any more private than that, but let's face it: we both know the best outlet."

She brought a hand to her forehead. "God, Garrus."

He chuckled and finished his drink. "I'm pretty good at this, aren't I?"

Shepard only laughed and shook her head.

"I just thought, 'What would Kelly Chambers do?' And then I did the opposite. I think that's a good life strategy in general."

“Garrus Vakarian: Turian army poster boy, noted killer of mercs, and ship psychologist,” she said, smiling.

“Just don’t advertise my services. I’d rather not know about some of the other crew’s issues.”

“Of course.”

“I’m serious, though, Shepard. I know I’m not the best at giving advice, outside of what gun you should be using – and it’s not that crappy pistol you  brought out on Manae, either – but it’s not often you get chances like this. I know a lot of things are up in the air right now but don’t deny yourself the chance to be happy, if you’re offered it. We’re _all_ here for you to fall back on. You’re not alone.”

Though the shadows were still heavy on her face, she seemed softer, calmer. She met his gaze and held it for a beat. His mandible twitched. “Thanks.”

“Of course.”

“You know, I really didn’t peg you for the type to give personal advice like this.”

He shrugged. “It wasn’t so bad once I realized I could just drink and poke fun at you the whole time.”

“I think that’s what friendship boils down to, in the end.”

Garrus stood, pleased. “Well now that I’ve solved all of your problems forever, I think we should both get some rest.”

"Wait," she said, stepping away from the couch, her eyes suddenly bright. "Hold on. We need to make this fair. The next time _you_ have some private, personal issue, _I_ get to be all invasive."

"Are you joking?" he laughed. "I've seen you solve an _entire crew's_ deep-seated personal issues. Weren't you giving Private Westmoreland advice the other day?"

"She ... asked me."

"Of course she did. Besides, I don’t have personal issues."

“What about that past relationship you mentioned?”

“I made it up.”

“ _Garrus_ ,”

“What?” he feigned innocence as he approached. “I had to show that we shared a common experience, to lull you into complacency and make you more likely to reveal personal information. It’s a common psychological strategy. Well, it’s usually employed in hostage situations, but I felt this conversation could benefit from it.”

Garrus took the empty glass from Shepard’s hands, ignoring the scalding look she was giving him.

“Just you wait, Garrus Vakarian,” she said in the same voice that so often echoed throughout Citadel space, inspiring trillions. He turned away and walked to the bar, hiding his amusement. “One day, I’m going to counsel the _hell_ out of you.”

 


	2. Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remember how after the sanity-saving date on the Citadel the scene ended with Shepard standing alone in the cafe, as though nothing had happened? Turns out it was edited down for length and because everyone was still too heated about the elevators from the first game to put up with watching Shepard and Kaidan make out in them for ten solid minutes.

“Do you always get so many stares when you walk around the Citadel?”

Shepard glanced around, taking in her surroundings for the first time in several hours. “It does seem a little more than usual.”

“I’m pretty sure that last group of Turians took a picture of us,” Kaidan said, eyeing the passersby with suspicion. “Maybe we should, you know, walk more apart?”

“We’re going back to the Normandy,” she said in her most convincing voice, needing assurance perhaps more than he did, “the ship that we both serve on. There’s nothing unusual about that.”

Had she been more sober she would have known that there most certainly _was_ something unusual about both of them, as they had spent their walk from the café to the docks meandering around each other, locked in orbit, oblivious to everything else. They had been scarcely aware of their surroundings, save, of course, for the current moment of paranoia, when the swaths of aliens and humans watching them curiously came into focus.

It had been the most remarkably normal afternoon she had had in several years. The entirety of the war melted away, leaving her feeling human for the first time since she woke up on board a Cerberus station. The next fight didn’t matter; the upcoming missions would wait. Her body was buzzing from the drinks, from adrenaline, from the magnetism she thought was successfully fighting against. Of course, she couldn’t help but muse over what she would give up in order to press up against him right there before everyone. What would she give just to let the media go wild, to not worry what the Alliance might do as their image was broadcast to every last inch of the galaxy?

But they were Alliance soldiers, the first two human Spectres, and they had shared a sanity-saving lunch in the Presidium and were returning to their warship to continue the good fight. Nothing more.

They progressed toward the docks dripping with forced professionalism. She wasn’t sure if she admired how he kept his eyes locked straight ahead, his posture high and professional, as though her presence at his side was terribly inconsequential, or if she was amused at the expression he thought exuded indifference. The beer was wreaking havoc on her stoicism ( _“terrible stuff,” he had called it. She laughed. “And that’s coming from a man who thinks that the malted beverage reached its apex with the invention of watery Canadian lager.” He narrowed his eyes, trying to judge if it was a friendly barb or a serious attack. She wanted to maintain a stony expression, but couldn’t help it, and laughed again.)_ No doubt some seedy news org already had several gigs of footage of the two of them strolling through the citadel, smiles so wide they hurt, finding reasons to casually make contact as they walked. For the moment, Shepard couldn’t think of anything that mattered less.

 

Certain memories were laid out in her mind as milestones, spiking higher than the static of daily life. They were the ones brimming with emotion, the ones entwined with symbols, scents, and sounds; the ones that could trigger and bring her back to that very day.

When she thought back to certain moments she could feel a twist in her stomach. She could feel the sun or the rain or the vacuum around her, whatever was present at the time. There had been a certain smell on Akuze. Burning plastic, hot metal, nonnative grass pollen that was heady and strong. She had flashes sometimes when that scent came together. When the strange atmospheres of distant plants roiled about her and suddenly there was a hint of something burning, when she became enveloped in that plastic, ozone scent, when the heady perfume of alien greenery overtook her and filled her sinuses; for the briefest of moments she could remember everything about that day, as if she were back there for just a moment.

She was never a victim to her memories. They always surrounded her, good and bad; they all had their place. She acknowledged them all. She took them as they came, accepted their presence, and carefully placed them aside. They would be there later. They would never leave her, she knew, and so she would focus on the mission, telling them she would return later. It was only when things grew quiet, when she found a moment of solitude, that she would glance over her shoulder and see them sitting where she left them. Some of them made her stronger. Some made her smile, some steeled her resolve. Some of them made her long for the battlefield, to be running, moving, shooting, for anything that took up the space in her mind, that kept her body busy, something that she could pour her energy into.

The memories she had of Kaidan had become an entirely new creature. Her first time on Omega with Cerberus, unsure if it was all just a waking dream, if maybe she had died on the Normandy after all ( _maybe this is all just a series of synaptic breakdowns, brain tissues slowly dying and sparking, creating vivid images and sounds in one painfully short instance before death,_ ) she forced ahead through the confusion, the mission the primary goal as always. It was an all-consuming task that took all her attention and let her feel at ease, until she heard a sound that was so familiar it froze her dead in her tracks.

Miranda was well-trained and despite their short allegiance she was committed to following Shepard's lead. When Shepard came to a sudden halt, Miranda dove into cover, her weapon ready and biotics primed.

"I can't see the target! Shepard -- get into cover!"

There was a strange shift in time, an eternity in your mind and a fraction of a second in reality. Shepard turned to Miranda.

"There's no target. I thought I heard something, that's all."

Miranda was puzzled.

"Don't worry," Shepard said, forcing an awkward half-smile, some semblance of a human emotion that she thought could put the other woman at ease. "I'm fine. Your work was solid."

Miranda stood, silent, forcing a look of indifference, as if she hadn't been concerned after all.

Shepard looked down the shadowed corridors of Omega's markets and began her determined march anew. To their left was a group of humans, strangers to her and irrelevant to the mission. She kept her eyes ahead, forcefully ignoring the unknown men and blocking out the sounds of one of them in particular, the one half shadowed, the one with a familiar gravelly voice, the one who had laughed just moments before, a sound so familiar it sliced through to her core and froze her in place. A sound that she could have sworn she heard only weeks ago. A sound that she had been told was now years in the past.

It wasn't the memories themselves that haunted her; it was the fact that they were moments _forced_ into memory. Two blank years had been injected into her life.

"Everyone drifted apart," was what Joker said when she asked about the old crew. So she would acknowledge the new memories and set them aside, as she always did. There was no time to deal with them now, she rationalized, and there was no sense in dwelling. It had been two years. It would be foolish to wonder, to waste time thinking about what could have been, to consider the future, to think that maybe, just maybe, he was still waiting for her to come back.

And then she was sent to Horizon.

She had to work to push down the memories that bubbled up when they embraced. The flash of familiarity burned. It was his scent, somehow unchanged, so familiar, that she missed the most. It brought her back to a hundred moments before, moments when she had felt calm, warm, and peaceful. The memories had been so easy to set aside before. _What's done is done_ , she would tell herself. _This is where I am now_. But her memories clung to senses and as she inhaled his scent and felt his arms around her, everything rushed back and for a rare moment she was helpless, for a rare moment she started to hope.

And then everything unraveled.

It wasn't until she was in the shuttle leaving Kaidan and Horizon behind that she realized how high the stack of memories had become. She had set so many memories of him aside, so many emotions, without realizing it. Some were so small and insignificant that she wondered why she even thought of them at all. Now those memories were the worst. They were heavy and hulking, threateningly important. A passing moment their first time on the Citadel, the first time they shared drinks during a brief moment of reprieve, the first time she laughed uproariously at a bad joke (she knew it wasn't even meant to be a joke, but that only made her laugh harder, until he was helpless but to join her,) exchanging a knowing glance before a corrupt official on Noveria, a moment on some god-forsaken planet when she was so furious at the Mako's inability to scale a sheer cliff, when he had touched her arm softly and stepped in her place, coolly fixing the malfunction without a single word.

They were all there, countless. As they ascended higher, Horizon growing smaller beneath them, she rested her head against the cold metal of the shuttle and closed her eyes. Her mind blanked, too many thoughts and memories blurred together into white noise. She exhaled and held it deep down at the bottom of her lungs, empty and sinking and heavy. Her body warmed, rising until it sparked, until a strong pulse beat within the buzzing white noise behind her eyes. She inhaled sharply and followed the breath though her entire body, down her arms into her fingertips, clenching them tightly, and in one hot moment she unleashed, a straight punch into the hard metal door, teeth clenched, muscles tight, the hum in her head louder than any engine. The blow reverberated through her body, filling the empty chasms. Her fist fell to her side, numb from impact, and she pressed her forehead into the cool metal once again.

She could see the memories piled high down beneath them on Horizon. More than she knew. More important than she thought. Unavoidable. Undeniable. She could see them through the floor of the shuttle, growing smaller and smaller, leaving a burned out crater deep in her core.

It was only then that she realized how much she had lost. It was only then that she realized what she had, what was growing inside, what caused those tiny moments to pile up until she was buried beneath them, what made every interaction so important, what would forever make her chest tighten as she thought of him walking away on Horizon, angry and disappointed.

Over time, that knowledge became something else to set aside. Once she made sense of it, it was easier to accept. So she kept her heap of memories, placing aside the questions that bubbled up now that she understood ( _what could have been, what would we have done, where would we be,_ ) and let them grow into a towering cityscape, telling herself that she would deal with them later.

She never did.

 

 

There had always been something to keep her occupied until she stood where she now stood (or _wobbled_ where she now stood, truth be told,) somewhere in a brightly lit corridor of the Citadel, the bruises and dents from the attempted Cerberus coup barely visible to her any longer, walking back to her ship next to a man who had been forcefully thrust back into her life after being brutally ripped from it.

She glanced over to him as they walked, the crowds parting before them, pretending to give them deference and space but unable to hide their giddy excitement, eager to sneak a photo on the extranet to sell to the highest bidder. His gaze was dead serious. Straight forward. Brow furrowed. Posture high and straight. Lips pursed.

The hardest battle Shepard thought she might ever fight was the one at that moment, simultaneously trying not to laugh at the forcefully serious expression on his face and trying not to grab for his waist right then and there, eliminating the distance between them.

Kaidan was too preoccupied in his attempt to remain focused to fully identify the expression on Shepard’s face, but he stole a quick glance toward her, a double-take, really, as she was doubtlessly grinning madly at him, and his attention fell.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“I’m more than all right.”

She recognized the glimmer of a smile on his face, still well-hidden.

The elevators to the docks stood before them. They had both paused.

“Well,” she found herself saying.

“I guess we should … get back to the Normandy.”

“Right.”

The doors opened. They stepped inside, turning to look out upon the Citadel, shoulder to shoulder, professional, focused, resolute, and a host of other expressions Shepard had mastered to hide the wars that went on behind her eyes.

The elevator doors slowly shut, dissolving the outside world, full of questioning stares and low whispers, wide-eyed euphoria and cheers, sucking the noise from around them into a low, steady hum as light condensed into a single point.

She didn't know how they arrived where they did. She would never remember. When she thought back to the moment, and she did often, all she could remember is the moment _before_ and the moment _of_. The moment where the elevator doors were closing in slow motion and the Citadel stood behind them as it always had, white and bright and clean, and the moment she was pressed into him, impossibly hard, lips locked and limbs entangled, pressing against each other as though to dispel the ghost that lingered, to prove their fact to one another.

Perhaps her hand brushed his hip first, perhaps he touched her wrist, each movement delicate and benign in nature, the first hint of what was lingering below, the first acknowledgement. Perhaps she grabbed him first, her hands digging into the crook of his firm side, pulling him in line with her. Perhaps he grasped at her wrist first, pulling her arm around him until her chest was pressed into his.

It was as if they had simply arrived there, as if they had known exactly where to land, the other's body mapped out perfectly nearby, every step planned and understood, as though they'd been practicing the entire time they'd been apart. The world outside existed in one moment, _mattered_ , and then she felt herself return to a place she thought she had lost, to the same feeling, the same scent, the same warmth.

In truth, it didn’t matter how they arrived, only that they had. _Finally_. She could feel the heat from his body, the warmth of his lips and his chest. It was all _familiar_ , lost. For a moment all she could do was wish she hadn’t had that last drink, that she had arrived here sober, able to pan out the details and savor every last facet of the moment. Instead it all swam together, good in its own way, perhaps, warm and encasing, all encompassing. An initial spark that lingered, a flash of light that kept repeating out to infinity.

And it was desperate. If the world were ending she would have expected to meet him like this, to grab hold as though gravity might release her otherwise, to press into him and feel his lips, his tongue, the breath on her cheek, the arms on her back, climbing to her neck, to feel him grasp hold of her just as hard as she held him.

It had only been a flash of a moment and already she had seen and felt every memory they shared. She pressed harder, felt him resist and force back, fingers digging into the flesh of her waist, a hand running across her stomach. She longed for the touch of skin to skin. God, she hated uniforms.

It was an all-consuming force, and she knew it. She saw a flash of a bruised lip, of gasping for breath, and didn’t care. That _was something to set aside_ , she thought. _That could wait until later._

He was a man of extremes, and extreme even in that: extreme control, extreme moderation. He vacillated between hot and cold, on or off, passing through center only to switch between.

She would never forget his touch, how in one moment it was the most delicate of sensations, barely making contact, more the static existing between skin, between fingertip and neck, shoulder and lips, than actual contact. It was as though he didn’t trust his senses, or was afraid of the body before him disappearing under his touch, as though she might dissolve back into a dream.

But then it would trigger. There would be a pulse of electricity arcing across the infinitesimal gap between skin and it was suddenly all pulling, grasping, pushing, pressing, intense and desperate, clutching at grains of sand slipping away, forcing them back to shape.

And now he had sparked. He pulled her so hard, pressed so hard, that she might have cried out, but no. Not now, not ever. She pulled him. She pressed harder. They were all feedback, signaling into each other, feeding off triggers and suggestions until she hadn’t taken in a breath for ages and her lungs burned and her body quaked.

She had no concept of time any longer and could only grab at the body before her, feeling so far away, so distant, so full of memories and feelings as to deny reality. Her hands were determined. They grabbed at his waistband, a single finger sliding between the fabric of his uniform. It was such an insignificant motion compared to the fire burning above, the compression and heat that would put the red-hot origin of earth to shame, but somehow he picked the signal from the noise.

It was another trigger and before she could make any use of her advantage, her back was against the wall and her breath out in a gasp. His hip was grinding into her and she could only struggle to find the inhale she so desperately needed. But she was pulling, too, grasping at his waistband, trying to close the gap -- _three years, there are three years there_ \-- trying to mesh together.

She remembered several fights for superiority, for control. Another memory based on sensation. And so she pulled at the fabric, fingertips so desperate for the warm flesh below. She saw her steps mapped out before her and readied herself, ready to regain control, but then.

But then he broke away. She took in a ragged breath but it was mistimed. He hadn’t stopped. His lips had fallen to her neck, to the place she was helpless against. A shiver passed through her body and it was all she could do to keep from pushing him away, the sensation too strong. But she knew this step. She knew the next move. She remembered.

Through the buzz of sensation she turned her lips to him, to the curve in his neck, exposed and vulnerable. Her nose brushed the bottom of his ear and she felt him shift, felt him react, and knew for one moment that nothing had changed.

For a flash all she could think of was how strange it was to have such intimate knowledge of another. How after all this time she still knew all the ins and outs, everything about him, the things that made him slow and the things that made him quicken. His lips were still on her neck, tortuous, and she realized that he knew it all as well.

She was strong. She could take the sensation. She could take him, she knew. Right then. All she had to do was make such a subtle movement. She smiled, her body disconnected, intoxicated from more than just the drinks. Her lips brushed past his earlobe and she could feel his muscles tighten around her. She couldn’t have done much if she tried, too bemused at the memory, at the acknowledgement of their past that it meant, at the intimate knowledge, to do anything but smile wider. But it was enough. He was helpless.

Her right leg was wrapped around his and with one quick, deft movement, she pulled it out from beneath him. In an instant she had thrown off his center of gravity and he was helpless but to move as she twisted his body around, slamming his back into the wall, switching positions with him in an instant. It may have been a common close quarters combat move, but neither of them had ever been shy about bringing their respective skillsets together for their shared benefit.

He was slowed by the alcohol as well, and she paused just before him, straddling a leg, the tip of her nose brushing against his. His breath passed his lips in one surprised exhale. She was grinning a bit too widely to do much else. His eyes blinked open and met hers, surprised.

“I forgot how good you are at that,” he said breathlessly.

Her grin widened. “I haven’t forgotten anything,” she teased. 

Their lips met again, still hard and reckless, but softer this time. A steady simmer. It was as if the desperation had been switched off like a light. Suddenly there was tenderness, longing. Suddenly the ghost between them had disappeared, suddenly they both knew the truth, that they were both together, again, in each other’s arms, after so long.

There was no longer desperation inside, a need to close the gap, to eliminate the space between them. Without saying a word they had both shifted, recognized the pain; bittersweet in the knowledge of how much time had passed since they were last there.

One hand was on her neck, the other her waist. She pulled away slowly. She couldn’t admit to being overwhelmed, not even to herself, but that was the best she could think to describe how she felt. She let her head droop into the arc of his neck, and relaxed into him as he pulled her in tighter.

That familiar scent was there, again, and it filled her head as his arms wrapped around and his fingers ran across the back of her neck, up into her hair, gentle and delicate.

For the briefest of moments all she wanted in the world was that space, her lips gently brushing against the base of his neck, his on her cheek, a familiar view, a familiar scent, like not a day had passed since she had last been there, like the past two years hadn’t happened, it had all been a dream, a trance. In the scent she could even see it, the past, the last time she had been here, the sounds of the ship, the things they had spoken of, the lights, the atmosphere, it was all there, and it rushed and overtook her in a wave.

“We should stop the elevator,” she managed to whisper. She felt his lips turn up in a smile against her cheek.

But it was too late; the light inside the elevator was changing. In a flash they had recovered, looking out upon the Citadel docks. Thousands of lives continued on, as always, unaware of any change in the universe. The elevator doors opened and the first two human Spectres stood side by side, professional as always, save for a few strands of misplaced hair and a slightly un-tucked uniform.

They made their way to the airlock in content silence, though perhaps with more speed than before. As they stepped into the Normandy airlock together and Shepard couldn’t help but notice the distance between them, and how it had been whittled down to nearly nothing.

“You haven’t seen my new Normandy quarters, have you?” she asked, feigning detachment.

Kaidan’s voice was just as dry and indifferent. “No, I haven’t.”

“I guess I’ll have to give you the grand tour, then.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

For a moment she felt a hand brush against her hip, but before she could turn the airlock doors opened and Joker materialized before them. Shepard froze.

“Oh, hey, Commander, Major,” the pilot said casually. “Are you ready to go? I was gonna hop down to the Presidium for dinner, but I can start flight prep.”

They were silent.

“I mean the food here hasn’t killed me yet, right?” he joked.

Shepard gathered her wits as best she could, as quickly as she could. She crossed her arms, an unconscious defense movement, and nodded.  “Yeah. Let’s get going.”

“Yeah,” Kaidan chimed in, his voice stilted. “I should … go,” he stood still for a beat, clearly unsure of how best to depart, and quickly walked away.

Joker watched as Kaidan scurried toward the elevator and turned back to Shepard, confused. It was no secret to him, she knew, but it didn’t need to be broadcast to everyone, and she certainly wasn’t in the mood for a joke.

If he understood, he hid it well. “Okay. Sounds good. The Far Rim, right?”

She remembered that Joker was incapable of hiding anything he thought, and felt better. “That’s right.” Shepard waited, watching Joker’s careful walk back to his chair. As he sat, EDI glanced back. For a moment, Shepard thought she could see a sly smile catch on her metallic skin. She quickly turned away and made for the elevator, eager to make up lost time.

As the elevator doors closed behind her, silencing the Normandy, Shepard fell into her thoughts once more. The last time she saw him in her quarters. It was truly a lifetime ago, for her.

Vertigo threatened her senses as for a moment she felt ready to tumble down into her collection of memories, but the crisp, sharp note of EDI’s voice broke through the noise and pulled her back to the surface.

“Shepard.”

Shepard never knew where to look when EDI’s disembodied voice perked up. “What is it, EDI?”

“Jeff and I will handle the preflight routine and our departure. It should be a few hours before you are needed on the bridge.”

Shepard waited for EDI to elaborate, but was met with silence. “… EDI?”

“You do not need to thank me.”

“Thank you? Thank you for—“

“I also allowed the Major entrance to your quarters, and I will ensure that you are not disturbed for the time being.”

“EDI, I –" the intent to speak was there, but her words drifted away. The doors opened before her. “Uh. Thanks.”

“Of course.”

The door to her quarters opened, revealing a confused Kaidan. He stood next to the fish tank, brows furrowed. He turned as she walked in. “You have a _fish tank?_ ”

She shrugged as she approached, her mood quickly rising. “It was a Cerberus thing. ‘Civilian-class comfort.’ I’m kind of glad the Alliance kept it, actually. I got sort of attached to my fish.” She eagerly grabbed for his waist, but he was still staring at the tank.

“Wait,” he said, his hands on hers, “We really need to talk about the fact that there’s a giant fish tank in the galaxy’s most advanced ship.”

“Is that really what we need to talk about right now?”

He cast one last furtive glance toward the tank. “Well. We’re going to talk about it. _Sometime_.”

Shepard felt clearheaded; she was no longer swimming through a mess of feeling and sensation. “Sure. We have plenty of time, after all.”

A slow, crooked grin grew across his face. It was an expression she had seen so many times before and still she was helpless but to mirror it. Shepard met him halfway, a struggle to meet his lips through a smile.  

His hands found her back and he pulled her in gently. The painful fire they shared was still there, she knew, perhaps it would always be there, but she also longed for the cool tenderness. She draped her arms around his neck. The war was fading. The past was fading.

And for a moment Shepard stopped remembering. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Oh, damn it,” Joker sneered at the screen. “Alliance brass calling to check in. EDI, can you get the Commander?”
> 
> “It would be best if you spoke to the Alliance representative, Jeff.”
> 
> “Uh, what? No, I was banned from doing that after I ... well, after I did that. I’ll get her on the—“
> 
> “The Commander should be left alone for now.”
> 
> “What are you talking about? You know she freaks out when I don’t run stupid Alliance bullshit by her.”
> 
> “Jeff. They should be left alone.”
> 
> “They should – Wait. Are you saying … like right now? How do you know?”
> 
> “I monitor the crew.”
> 
> “Uh, yeah…?”
> 
> She turned to him and smiled. 
> 
> Joker slowly turned back to his controls, his posture stiff. “I’ve decided I don’t want to ask any follow-up questions.”
> 
> “I am patching Alliance control to you now.”
> 
> “God damn it,” Joker sighed.


End file.
